As it is, As it was
by floridheart
Summary: He came to her in her dreams. She danced through his. Time meant nothing, and he sculpted her to believe so.
1. Prologue

It was like she was drowning. There was no air for her to breathe. Something was ripping at her skin. She was nowhere; he was everywhere. She didn't hear him, but she saw him. Vaguely she understood. Numbly she felt. This wasn't how it was meant to happen. She'd always hoped she'd feel his touch just before it happened. If it happened. He always said it wouldn't. That they were eternal. Or, that he was. And someday she would follow him down those steps to a never ending bliss. No fear. Control of everything; everyone.

"Power is everything," He'd whisper to her in the darkness, his thin white fingers gripping at her with a strength she could hardly register in her ecstasy.

_And we will have it all._

It had seemed so resolute. He had seemed so tenacious. She'd had no reason to believe it would come to this, nor had he.

She thought for a moment. If you could call it thinking. Everything seemed so frayed and blurred. She could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. But she ached for him. She always would. Trapped, and so blissfully lost in everything his being was.

It was exactly what he'd wanted from her.

Maybe she'd wanted it as well.

She smiled and closed her eyes.


	2. There should have been

**Chapter One  
><strong>There should have been  
>Date: February 20th, 1958<p>

Her feet were numb. She prodded each tiny toe with her finger, pinched the heel of her foot but felt no pain. Nothing. Her jaw tightened and she let out an excruciating sigh as another bout of shivers wracked her body. It was always so cold when her father was home. The lights in the house were kept dim and the hearth went unlit. That was how he preferred it. That was precisely how she hated it. Even after crawling under her sheets and pulling them tightly to her small body she still could not seem to make herself warm. She fumed. Her father shouldn't be allowed to let his daughters freeze in the mid winter season simply because he would rather sit in his study alone with the frosty air nipping at his skin. To make matters worse she had been sent to her bedroom just as soon as she had taken her last bite of dinner. She had refused until her mother had mentioned that her father would be coming home that night with a guest.

She thought that if she had closed her door, she would be able to keep whatever warmth in the air stable inside of her large room. Sadly, it seemed as soon as her mother had put out the fire in the hearth, the heat had traveled towards the draft coming from her window. And so she sat, shifting uncomfortably under her duvet, freezing and numb and furious with her father for returning home at such an unexpected time. Had he returned later in the week as she had been told, she would be warm and under her blankets sleeping softly without a care in the world that she had been sent to bed early.

Her temper flared when she thought of Cissy who was surely comfortable and sleeping by their mother's side. _She_ hadn't been carted off to bed at such an unseemly time. She'd stayed with Druella until the mother herself had decided it was time to head off to her bed chambers.

Bella ground her teeth together and stared at her dress which she had callously thrown to the floor before pulling her nightgown roughly over her head. It was a silly salmon pink color that she had angrily stated made her look like one of the painted clowns from the muggle circus. She deplored the ugly thing. It didn't seem very fair to her. She hardly got to do anything she wanted lately. If only her parents would let her do as she pleased-

"Ah!" She let out a squeak of alarm as bright red flames suddenly enveloped the dress. She blinked slowly before a grin curved her lips. She knew she could do it again; use magic. And in the most convenient of ways. The flames would both warm her and wipe the disgusting dress from existence and reduce it to nothing more than a pile of ashes.

Ecstatic, she threw the covers off of her and slid off of her bed to get a closer look at the flames. They were a furious orange and licked at the dress, the salmon color quickly turning to a dark brown. The lace curled into itself until it dropped away from the dress in small charred pieces, falling gracefully to the floor.

"Amazing," she whispered, admiring the flickering flames. She put her hand out, palm towards the floor and closed her eyes, trying to imagine the flames growing larger and larger until they were so high they were flickering up at her heated cheeks.

When she peeled her eyes open again she wasn't too surprised to see the flames had doubled in size. The flames did nothing that she didn't will them to do. They could burn down her whole room if she wished.

Suddenly excited, Bella gave a little giggle at the thought of telling her mother and father about this. While her mother would be abhorred about the destroyed dress, her father would be proud to hear it and would regard her as a strong little witch. She would tell them. She contemplated waiting until morning, but knew that was out of the question. She wouldn't be able to sleep at all, now that she was so awake with excitement. Quickly, she turned around and slung a robe over her nightdress before slipping out of her room into the hallway.

She was careful while walking past her mother's room. She would be angry with her, no doubt. The only person she was to tell tonight was her father. He didn't care about silly things like expensive clothing. Magic and power were of more interest to him. And social status, she quietly reminded herself. He was a Black, after all. She had to smile to herself. _As am I. _

Bella halted at the end of the hall, the door to her father's study looming above her. She could hear quiet voices behind the door. She wrung her hands together, suddenly nervous. She'd forgotten that her father had brought home a guest. Probably business matters. She'd come this far, though. Her father had to know. He'd be proud of her, no matter who the guest was. He'd probably laugh, his voice booming, and introduce her to his guest as his skilled and privileged daughter Bellatrix Black.

She curled her fingers around the nob and turned it, slowly inching the door open far enough just to peer in without being noticed. She could see her father, sitting in a large arm chair, his back to her. His left hand held a wine glass. It was half empty. The wine swirled slightly as he lifted it to his lips to take a sip. He didn't appear to be talking, just listening with intent interest to the quiet voice. She couldn't see who it was, and she strained to hear what he was saying. Frustrated, she pushed the door open another few inches and peered into the room.

Her breathe caught in her throat. The man was looking right at her, with dark eyes that appeared almost black in color. He showed no emotion at her intrusion, almost as if she were invisible and he were simply looking out into the hall behind her. She studied his face as he seemed to be studying her. High, prominent cheek bones, fairly pale complexion. His demeanor was empowering, and she felt drawn to him, yet she stayed rooted to the spot. He was beautiful.

Bellatrix parted her lips to say something, but only emitted a quiet squeak that made Cygnus turn on the spot, a look of ire etched onto his usual handsome and arrogant features.

"What are you doing out of bed, Bella." He bit out, enunciating each syllable as if he desired to slap her in the face with each word. She staggered back a few steps, meaning to scramble down the hallway and run back to her room, before she felt her father's fingers grip her arm so tight she was sure there would be bruises by morning.

The beautiful man watched the scene with mild interest while Bella was dragged into the room by Cygnus. She focused her eyes on the ground, her face flushed with embarrassment, while trying to hide the pain she was registering from Cygnus' tight grip. She stared intently at the rug her bare feet stood on, counting each little stitch until her father shook her out of her reverie.

"Apologize for interrupting our meeting," He snarled in her ear.

She could feel the man's dark eyes watching her, and determined not to show weakness in his powerful aura, she lifted her head high and met his gaze. He looked amused. She tried to look indignant.

"I apologize," she started, then paused. Her hands were shaking viciously, so she clenched them together. "for interrupting you and my father's meeting, sir."

The man seemed to study her for a moment, then brushing back a bit of stubborn black hair from his forehead, he leaned close to her. "And why, may I ask, did we have the pleasure of being interrupted by you, child?" His voice was sardonic, and she could tell he wasn't amused at the interruption, perhaps even less than her father was.

Bella was quiet, thinking to the fire that was surely still lapping at her dress on the floor of her room. "I needed to tell my father something," She said, finally.

"Then tell him."

"I think it can wait until morning," Cygnus cut across. Her father's guest leaned away from Bellatrix to give her father a sharp look at which he fell silent. His grip on Bella's arm slackened and the man took her by the arms and spun her around to face her father.

"Tell him about the dress, then."

Bella stiffened and resisted the urge to turn and look at the man. _How did he know?_

Cygnus stared at his eldest daughter expectantly while she opened her mouth to speak, still wondering how the male who towered behind her knew about the dress when she hadn't said a word about it. She found herself unable to speak. One of the dark eyed man's hands rested on her shoulder and gripped tightly until she wished to squirm away from him.

"I used magic again." She cried out when she felt as if her arm was going to fall off. "I-I caught the dress mother bought me this weekend on fire."

Her father's face brightened at this, and the man's hand retreated, seemingly satisfied. She could almost feel her shoulder sigh in relief. Her father was pleased, though. She couldn't help but feel content at this. Perhaps her father would reward her after all.

"I'm pleased to hear this, but you need to return to bed, sweetheart." She was amazed how her father's moods could change so quickly. Only a moment ago he'd been determined to break her arm, now he was extending the same hand that had gripped her meaning to guide her back to her room. She took it cautiously and allowed herself to be led from the study. She looked back to see if the man was watching them, but he was now seated in her father's chair, a glass of wine pressed to his thin lips, deep in thought.

When Bellatrix and Cygnus reached her room he waved his hand to staunch the flames that were still twisting in an invisible container. Bella crawled under her thick duvet and watched her father as he cleaned up the ashes that used to be her dress. A small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. Her mother would not be very pleased to hear of this in the morning.

"I'll take you to Diagon Alley next week, Bella, alright?" He put a hand on her black curls and stared at her, his eyes holding no sincere promise. She nodded despite the nagging feeling in her pit that he probably wouldn't bring her, and that her mother would be the one to.

"Alright, well time for you to rest." He said, retracting his hand and moving towards the door.

"Who was that man?" Bella asked suddenly. Her father didn't say anything for a moment then turned to his daughter, looking hard at her, his hand on the doorknob.

"He's an incredibly astute man. Very... clever." Her father said this all passionately, as if he revered the man; as if he were no less than a god. "And his head is definitely in the right place when it comes to knowing what kind of blood is treasurable among us." He finished, then exited the room without another word towards the matter.

Bella stared at the spot where the flames had been, scrunching her nose up in distaste. Her father was always cryptic. She'd only wanted to know the man's name.

Rolling over, she winced. Her arm was already forming nasty dark bruises that stretched across her arm, splaying in an exact replica of her father's hand. She pulled the sleeve of her nightdress up to check her shoulder, but discovered no marks where her father's guest had gripped her. She placed two thin fingers on her shoulder and dragged them across the soft, pale skin there.

A wave of disappointment washed over her. She would surely wake in the morning and think the man was a dream, nothing more than a face her mind conjured to taunt her through sleep. She would forget him, as–she was positive–he had already forgotten her.


End file.
